


Kitchen Party

by facetofcathy



Category: Leverage
Genre: 100-1000 Words, Character of Color, Community: kink_bingo, M/M, Sex Positive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-17
Updated: 2009-11-17
Packaged: 2017-10-03 05:46:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/facetofcathy/pseuds/facetofcathy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the <span><a href="http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org/"><b>kink_bingo</b></a></span> square, Leather/Latex/Rubber.</p><p>Set in season one sometime, not a single spoiler for anything, and for this story, kink is spelled, f-l-u-f-f.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kitchen Party

Eliot's new place in L.A. was a swanky little palace. The kitchen was command central, and the biggest room in the place, with gleaming black counters and shimmering stainless steel and a long bar that divided the cooking area from the eating area. Instead of a dining table, Eliot had put a pair of black leather sofas and a low wooden table in front of the glass-walled view of the Marina. That view was spectacular, but serious eaters sat at the bar, so they could watch the chef while they enjoyed what he put in front of them. Alec liked watching the chef, even though no one would call him a very serious eater.

It was a pleasure to sit and watch Eliot work, the knife blade flashed bright silver, as it slap, slap, slapped against the cutting board. Alec was still a little nervous about the speed Eliot worked at and the edges honed to killing sharpness; he trusted Eliot's skill, intellectually at least, but his baser instincts still had him flinching away occasionally. The real attraction for Alec was the smells. The hot iron pan, a slick of oil gleaming, and when Eliot tossed in the onions, the smell bloomed in the air, sharp and hot, and his mouth was watering for a taste.

As often as not, Eliot's cooking carried memories of home in its aromas. He had never said where exactly he was from, but there was a map of America, especially the South, in his food. He could make that kitchen smell like Nana's house one day and a Texas steak house the next. He refused to take sides in any barbecue war, made your grits the way you liked them, and he made the finest biscuits. It took the right touch, good hands, to make proper biscuits, and Eliot had very good hands.

Alec breathed deeply, savouring the onion smell again; some spices had joined the mix, and Eliot was dumping out a bowl of chilies onto the counter, red, green, yellow, a blush of orange across one, shining against the black marble, and then he bent down, and Alec paid a little more attention to the man, rather than the food. Hey, he was only looking, no harm in looking. Eliot stood up, and Alec froze, staring at the thing in Eliot's hand, and he would swear he could smell it, even over the heavenly scent of onion and cumin and some spice that Eliot kept in an unmarked twist of paper, and his fingers, oh god, Eliot was shoving his fingers into a pair of gloves, latex kitchen gloves, and he snapped the cuff against one wrist and turned with a smirk and that damn twinkle in his eye, and Alec was—

"Problem, Hardison?" Eliot said, and a hint of chili heat coloured his voice.

—caught red handed, so to speak. "What, man—just never thought you would be the guy to fear the capsaicin," Alec said.

Eliot snapped his glove again and grinned a little wider at all the things Alec knew he was not keeping off his face. "I had an unfortunate incident once," he said, and wiggled his fingers while Alec tracked the motion with his eyes.

"Eye?"

"Not my eye." Eliot walked around the bar, stepped up close, and Alec could smell the latex for real now, and his mouth was watering, and it had nothing to do with onions or anticipation of Eliot's chili, and damn, he was hard and Eliot was coming even closer.

Alec dropped his hands into his lap and tried a casual smile. "Harsh, man," he said.

"Something you want to tell me?"

"No, nothing, why—"

Eliot dropped his latex coated palm onto Alec's shoulder. "You sure, Hardison? I have a very open mind, you know."

"Oh," Alec said, and he took a deep breath, the smell of the latex filling his nose. "I was sixteen," he said quickly, pushing the words past the moan in his throat.

"And?" Eliot said quietly, and he moved his thumb along Alec's jaw.

"And I met Joey Miller."

Eliot slid his hand up to cup the side of Alec's face.

Alec wanted to turn and bury his nose in the latex, let the smell fill him up. "His mother ran the local clinic. You set foot in her house, you got the safe-sex speech. She had a bowl of condoms on the coffee table like other people have candy."

"Uh, huh." Eliot's thumb was flirting with Alec's lips.

"Joey decided we should spend the summer perfecting the ultimate blow job."

Eliot pressed his thumb against Alec's mouth, and Alec responded, as if he'd been trained, which he pretty much had been. He sucked the latex covered flesh into his mouth. "Oh, hell yeah," Eliot said.

Alec sucked harder, and looked up to see Eliot's face, flushed with arousal and heat from the kitchen; his hair was curling where it had escaped from its tie. His eyes were fixed on Alec's mouth.

"So did you?" Eliot said, voice all rasp and dry sandy heat.

"Mmm?"

"Perfect the blow job?"

Alec pulled his mouth off Eliot's thumb and smiled, the room felt hot, suddenly—humid, like the deepest days of summer in a place where the air tasted of lush vegetation and sultry winds off the ocean. "Always willing to work on my game."

"Let's move this game to the sofa," Eliot said, and then he paused. "You want, I mean—I have condoms?"

"Nah," Alec said, "I have more refined tastes now. I like the taste of a man, the smell of him, the feel of his skin."

Eliot stared at him, and it seemed lust rendered him speechless, but he kept backing up toward the sofa, and Alec kept pace with him.

"You can leave the gloves on, though," Alec said.

He could taste Eliot on his lips still, bitter, salt tang and an illusive flavour that defied description, some mystery element that he couldn't define. He was liquid, sated, slumped down against the cushions, shirtless, his pants still half off, sticky come on his belly. Eliot had gone back to the kitchen, back to his chilies and secret spices. The leather stuck to Alec's skin and the smell of it, earthy and animal, overlaid with the acrid scent of dye and oil, filled his nose. The aromas coming from the kitchen faded away.

"You ever getting up?" Eliot called out.

Alec ran his hand over the smooth leather, and turned his face to inhale deeply. He wondered what Eliot's thoughts were on leather pants.


End file.
